


Face Down

by yourKitty



Category: Marvel, Marvel Comics, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Marvel Universe, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 01:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12924165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourKitty/pseuds/yourKitty
Summary: You catch yourself in the midst of a bank robbery, with all odds against you.





	1. Chapter 1

Another window broke on the periphery. The violent shatter stretched through the bank, as being ravaged by common thugs, worming its way into your senses. You could feel a grimace overtake your features. It seemed a daily occurrence in Queens, without plausible end. A grossly crime-ridden city had its only beacon of light from a lanky man with spider-like abilities clad in red and blue spandex. 

There was no time for reflection. You laid on your stomach, dirtying your blouse with the lint coating the dirt-brown carpet of the bank, hiding directly under the teller’s desk. The only objects visible to you were the cheap pen attached to the desk dangling in front of you, almost tauntingly; the other patrons, terror painting over their faces; and the bank robber’s shoes, scuffed on the sides. Daunting threats of death from the criminals echoed through the room, as they advised all to remain on the floor.

Everything quieted, though, when the convicts barreled to the ground with the rest. The light taps of covered feet were the only trace of life in the bank now. The feet weren’t covered by shoes, but by tights of some sort. The concept of these feet belonging to the spider man didn’t click with you until he had bent down in front of your refuge. This was quite a compromising position for you, as you never allowed vulnerability to show. Dull cries of desperation and fear rung throughout the institution while citizens awaited the spider’s declaration of safety. It came, in time, along with the police. 

While the others were occupied with comforting and returning themselves and their children home, you stood slowly to witness the remains of the bank. Bills and glass strewn on the floor; bullet holes in the walls; randomly abandoned possessions of terrified patrons. The spider man was taking thanks and praise from those left behind. You were going to be among them. Shakily you approached the man, when he was finally alone, heart pounding against your chest as if it were to escape. He seemed approachable, but the previous situation still had you in its filthy grip.

“I need to thank you. I’m sorry and I know you’ve heard this so many times, but you deserve all the praise you receive. You’re such a good man and I…” The words dissolved one by one, directly before you could utter them. 

“You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job. Y’know?” His voice was casual. No triumphant condescension here. Like he was talking to his best friend. 

This drove you to a smile. His tone changed to supportive, nearly flirtatious. “That’s what I like to see. I gotta get out of here, though, so… promise you’ll stay out of trouble, alright?” He started toward and out the door, swinging out of sight via spontaneous webs. Quite a sight. You watched him fade into the horizon, hoping to whatever power out there that you would meet again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fake news.

You stayed out of trouble, at least. It was a minimal obligation to the spider man. Life degraded you more and more by the day, and the only escape was the short fantasy of rescue from a mysterious casanova. As sappy as it sounds, it contained only truth. 

One of few sources of solace was reading. You enjoyed reading the local newspapers -- particularly The Daily Bugle -- that caught your eye with flashy headlines and pictures that filled the front page. You could put aside integrity for flashy untruths sometimes, but this issue hadn’t the same shameful appeal. This headline read: “SPIDER-MAN BACK AT IT AGAIN.” Back at what, exactly? As you read you realised the article was wholly malicious in nature, intentionally slanderous. Journalistic integrity is dead, it was clear. 

You continued to venture down the chilled sidewalk with the paper clutched in your hands, buried under the salaciousness writ by dishonest hacks just down the street. The work detailed the spider man’s escapades around Queens, implying in obvious terms he was the true criminal, not the looting and assaulting thugs roaming the streets, still unaware of the bitter taste of law-and-order. 

Your travels had brought you to the front of the Daily Bugle structure, tempting you to storm in and demand a reprint. It was, essentially, your civilian duty to ensure that all information being presented to you as truth was actual truth. And particularly in this case; Spider-Man doesn’t deserve this reputation. Gripping the paper in one hand, you took the lift to the top floor. The contributors eyed you with curious contempt, but at least the receptionist was friendly. She led you to who you assumed was “the boss,” an aging man with angry and exhausted features, unamused by your presence, certainly. His office reeked of cigarette smoke and aged paper. The desk, which crowded the entire space, was cluttered with aspirins and undisclosed versions of old publications, all presenting Spider-Man as the trademark villain of Queens. 

You started meekly, “Hi, um, I was reading your latest paper, and I wanted to tell you that you’ve got it all wrong about this spider guy. I mean, about the bank robbery… it didn’t have anything to do with him. I was there. He saved us. The audacity of you to,” you quickly caught yourself, “I mean, this take on Spider-Man is dishonest and it would be better for the public if you were to change it.” 

He was about to ramble, rudely, about how you didn’t know what you were talking about, you could tell, but before he began, a figure set itself beside you. You craned your head slowly up to catch a look at this person. He was a tall, lanky man, much in the same build of your hero. But it was difficult to tell in the baggy red sweater he sported. He ran a hand through his neat, thick brown hair, finally meeting your gaze, too. 

Back to business, though. The boy presented the bitter addict with well-taken photos of Spider-Man, with a hopeful glint in his doey blue eyes. Though, he knew better than to present them nicely and leisurely. All he did was toss the photos on the desk, demand a call (politely, of course), and went on his way. 

You wondered if you were alone in outrage, and you were determined to find the truth, going on to trail this guy. 

“Hey, did you read this?” You tried with all fibres to espouse confidence. 

The young man turned your way and stopped. “The paper? Yeah, I did. I hate that for Spider-Man. He didn’t do anything wrong.” A glimpse of hurt grazed him as he spoke. It was apparently personal for him. 

“I know. I was telling the guy that it’s slanderous. It’s wrong to say that he’s our enemy when he really isn’t. He saved my life last week, and I at least got to thank him.” A smile crept up to you as you recounted the story. “Oh, um, I’m (Y/N), by the way.” 

“Peter,” he answered. “I actually know Spider-Man, too. Good friend of mine.” He told you as if he were trying to impress you with the fact, grinning crookedly, but in the charming sort of way. 

You decided to humour him, though it was interesting. “That is really cool.” 

“Yeah,” he turned his head satisfactorily. “I’ll see you around, alright?” And with that, he rushed to the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who are looking forward to the rest of this, sorry I haven't put out the third chapter. I promise it's coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're next encounter with Spider-Man is painfully short.

There was no resolution to the newspaper debacle, and next week’s paper ran within the same vein of lies. 

It was high time you dropped it, though, for you had work to do. Ironically, you also held a job in a dishonest source of entertainment: a fashion magazine. The epitome of vapid frivolity. No, it wasn’t your style but it pays the bills. You were a column writer, dishing out whatever it was the bosswoman asked of you, and that beast of a woman was a wildcard. She’d have her little nothing of an assistant weasel her way into your cubicle (ironically, her features resembled that of a weasel; a very fashion-forward weasel) and demand a new story about a new nail polish brand or upcoming designer. Two items on your personal list of “Things I Don’t Care About.” 

Maybe it would be a welcome change to consider The Daily Bugle. At least as an editor, you could ensure the truth was truth. In the meantime, you were typing up a most enthralling op-ed discussing stripes versus polka dots. 

Your floor began to rumble and the keyboard scuffed and skittered away from your fingers. Your co-workers plunged into the carpet to take cover -- you followed suit. Rubble dissolved and fell in the vicinity, striking and bouncing off the tabletops. You could only cower in horror, convincing yourself it would end soon. But by a moment, the chaos quieted. That terrified you more. 

A sticky substance latched itself onto your arm, quite grossly, and you were dragged from under your shelter into the ruthless cold of the outside, but you weren’t falling. You expected to be barrelling toward the cement, but were, in reality, being held tightly to a firm body by an arm in red spandex, with a familiar lined pattern. 

The rest of your journey to safety blurred into insignificance, and the rest of your day was dedicated to collecting the remaining shreds of your sanity and piecing them together, to possibly blueprint a way to once again thank Spider-Man for his benevolent diligence and heroism. He deserved every form of praise that would inevitably be tossed his way and couldn’t be justifiably criticised by any skeevy newspaper for continuing his crusade to “clean up” in Queens. 

The police department gathered up the survivors for questioning (and thanks to Spider-Man, everyone survived). You overwhelmed yourself with anxiety, shoving past the samely hurt citizens. At first, you had to admit, this excitement was just the spark you required from living in the cultural capital. You didn’t want it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took too long and is so short. Sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now you have to get a new job. One with many hidden opportunities.

Out of work. It’s been this way for two weeks. From the fifth story window you viewed dedicated construction underway. In this time, you picked up a part time job just by Daily Bugle headquarters, only to eavesdrop on their wrongdoings, dropping in once in a while. It hadn’t occurred to you yet to take a position at the wretched news organization. It was probably wise to allow them to recognize their own pitfalls, but there was no guarantee of it. 

Running a streetside hotdog stand undoubtedly cramped your style, but the population of Queens were fanatics, more so than you expected. Unable to catch a break even if it was right under your nose, you did everything in your power to remain tranquil and friendly to every schmuck that crossed your path. You did mean “schmuck,” too. That dorky photographer from the Daily Bugle gave you a significant amount of business. The highlight of each day, around one in the afternoon, was watching Peter stuff the entire dog in his face. 

It didn’t seem to occur to him that he’d met you beforehand. It was ripe time to remind him after a week; a week of rehearsing a proposal for the date you needed. It didn’t have to involve the intensity of a date between lovers. Unsure of your feelings about Peter, you did know you had to know more about him. 

On the seventh day, rife with oppressively cold rain, you stopped Peter before he strolled off, taking charge, almost demanding a date with him. You’d been out of the game for quite a time, and hoped he responded to attempted dominance. Caught off guard, yeah, but he did agree to a date. You hadn’t known yourself to be the typical twenty something that slept her way around the city; it would be devastating if he were to get the wrong idea. 

And truly it wasn’t that serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like satisfying ends.
> 
> I might update this someday, but for now, this is the end. Thanks for reading.


End file.
